


A Brother, a Friend, and Glen Baskerville

by Maisunadokei1856



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 02:19:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17336828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maisunadokei1856/pseuds/Maisunadokei1856
Summary: On Oswald's resolve after a hundred years of slumber; the wrongs he tried to undo, and those he committed instead.On his realizations and his farewells; the meaning of that smile at Lacie, and of that stare towards Jack.And on the meaning of those tears that were shed for him.





	A Brother, a Friend, and Glen Baskerville

For Oswald, emotions were easy to recognize, hard to acknowledge. Easy to understand, yet hard to admit. Emotions that got in the way of his duty, emotions that hindered him and only added to his guilt. Yet Oswald wasn’t like Jack, he wasn’t so lost that he could choose his cause over the wholeness of his soul, over the natural state of emotion and the horrified screams of his own heart. A hundred years later, he decided that was his very sin. 

He had decided that Jack could only be fought with a resolve as firm as his own. That he could only face him with the same self-harming lack of hesitation, with the same stubbornness and ruthlessness. And before long, he had denied everything that he was. He resolved that he would get rid of Jack and his chain and the present he created even if it was through blackmail and the execution of already defeated enemies. Even if it meant to order the death of Gilbert, who had been a son to him, or going to the past to kill Lacie with his own hands. Even if it meant his soul was breaking and burning, and that it was gradually dissipating into nothing (and he somehow managed to avoid thinking about just who else’s soul was following the exact same process.)

“Be it me, or Jack Vessalius, we are but self-centered _humans_. And so are you,” Barma’s words had thrown him into a blind rage, but maybe, just maybe, the reason for that is that they held a truth he, unlike other things, couldn’t deny. 

In retrospective it sounded ridiculous, that he would walk the same path as Jack Vessalius when he knew better than anyone how broken the man was. It sounded obvious that he was not a model to be followed, but a madman to be stopped, yet humans are subconsciously dragged along paths they don’t consider, and paths they don’t wish for. And he thought for one second that maybe Jack Vessalius hadn’t considered this path, hadn’t wished for it.

But only when most of his soul had been consumed, and exhaustion weakened him to the point where he couldn’t control his chain anymore, only then had he finally understood. That his true sin had never been trust and kindness, hadn’t been that he didn’t deny what he was, but that he had always tried to reconcile what could never go hand in hand. His hypocrisy had been to always want to be at the same time a brother, a friend and the Head of the Baskerville, yet ultimately being neither the moment they all crashed together. In the end, he was yet another self-centered human, and what a human regrets most is inaction; not doing what they truly wished for when they had the opportunity to. Not even saving his dearest sister before it was too late, comforted in his passivity by the belief that it was his duty.

Admitting it had been freeing. Throwing away the sword he couldn’t bring down on the small figure of his most beloved sister had been freeing. Completely worn out, he collapsed on his knees, watching her as she smiled and waved at him, before walking away, her hand in his small self's own. For a moment, he wondered how he must have looked to her, what his attempt to kill her and ultimately his inability to do so meant to her. To Oswald, it had always been disconcerting, the way Lacie could easily and accurately read him, see in him what he himself was unaware of. Out of her small eyes, she had looked at him fearlessly, probably never believing he would actually kill her. And she had been right. Lacie was always right when it came to him. He felt sad that she had to see him that way, his sword raised over her. He hoped she would not blame herself, because he had never blamed her, would never do. Yet at the same time, he felt strangely relieved because she _understood._ He smiled, peacefully, genuinely, before falling on the ground.

His farewell to Jack had been in contrast far less peaceful, despite being silent and inexpressive. When he looked up at him, it was a violent discord that threatened to fill his emotions as his mind got assaulted by the painful, confusing mix of remorse, anger and affection.

His mistakes and contradictions had been innumerable, but that man had been his one, gravest sin. He had been the hot ember he had failed to notice, he had _pretended_ not to notice _,_ and he had left it where it was the likeliest to cause a fire. And what it caused was a blaze so intense it consumed them whole: him and his servants and countless innocents and Jack Vessalius himself.

_I can never forgive myself_

But there was something else that kept stinging, and he wished he were over such feelings, yet it was too late to deny them. His throat still felt tight with a betrayal too bitter to swallow. That for whatever reason, his only friend could bring himself to turn a sword against him, to conspire against him, had costed him a great part of himself. It had hurt almost as much as when he drew his own sword with the clear and firm intent to kill him, to stop his madness.

_I can never forgive you_

Yet in the middle of it, he was realizing now, it only hurt this much because even now, he remembered their time together with clear fondness. He could never trust that smile ever again, yet oddly enough, he longed to see its warm brightness one last time, instead of that clueless expression of a lost child. Ultimately, what pained him to admit the most, and not without cursing both himself and Jack for it, was that his damnable wish from a hundred years ago remained unchanged.

_I still wish we could have remained friends_

* * *

 

“Are you sad?” Oz had asked upon seeing his tears.

He hesitated, unwilling to lie, but having no truthful answer to provide. After all, tears weren’t just for sadness, were they? 

Tears are the expression of many kind of emotion, and to Jack, emotion was a vague concept, something that was there and yet intangible. Like a black haze that spread inside of him and hurt and stained his face in tears and his hands in  blood, yet held no meaning he could consciously define.

If he was honest though, he just didn’t dare to look at it.

 _Am I sad?_ He asked it again of himself, still clueless to the meaning of his own expression. Maybe that was it: sadness. Grief over the fact that Lacie is no more, that Oswald is no more, that they will never find each other, ever again? Or was he lamenting over the fact that it was his own doing?

_Lacie didn’t deserve this, and you didn’t deserve this_

And maybe the tears were for joy, maybe he was in fact glad that Oswald and Lacie had a proper farewell, that every misunderstanding was cleared; maybe he was relieved that Oswald realized he wasn’t just Glen, in the end.

_I am glad you are still her brother_

It could be loneliness; painful thoughts about a song he’d never hear, smiles he’d never see, peaceful days he’d never enjoy, never again. Maybe it was something in how they smiled at each other for the last time, before going together towards the same destination, where even in a thousand years he won’t find them again.

_Don’t leave me behind_

And maybe it was resignation. Maybe his fate has never felt more real, maybe seeing Oswald’s own soul burn to ashes in the same way as his own, seeing it disappear to a hundred small lights made him feel how close it was: his eternal farewell to a world he never loved; a thought that strangely brought him neither joy nor relief.

_Wait for me, for I will follow soon_

**Author's Note:**

> I can't count the times I've written about Oswald's death by now, but I might still not be over it.


End file.
